Caloub Flambeaux
__________________
http://bonthebeautiful.blogspot.com/2011/03/la-marseillaise.html
“The goal is not to become
a rereader but to rise above
the existing levels and created
Edouard’s unwritten novel,
which, like a never-ending
spiral, engenders new text
about texts”—Leonid Livak,
“The Art of Writing a Novel,”
How It Was Done in Paris:
Émigré Literature And
French Modernism
I had these two eyes—they weren’t like mirrors, they were more like twin aquariums. I didn’t walk, I swam thru life. I kept sloshing around in an aquatic daze with these two big fishy eyes—completely impervious to all the usual visual impressions people are supposed to possess to live, to love, to survive.
I suppose I was just as blind as Miss Milton, just as deaf like Miss Beethoven—I was no genius tho like them. I was simply a gay naïve idiot-savant in a watery dream-world, my dears. A blissful incapacity for human observation was mine—hence complete uniformity of the str8t world surrounded me.
I was blind to everything—except for one thing. It happens, I suppose, sometimes a gay person has some little light of his or her own glimmering inside them. Caprices of some demonic resourceful nature may sometimes out of sheer boredom crave for experiences that might need some kind of startling readjustment and substitution of the senses such that an inner gay light might astonishingly brighten some event so as to surprisingly bring something perhaps rather gauche or grotesque suddenly about.
How could a deep-sea bug-eyed creature like me even become aware of the paradoxical formula that “nature mimics art”? And yet it happened to me one night late standing there—in front of the magnificent, rather lewd facade at the Baton Rouge Louisiana State Capitol.
There it was—“La Marseillaise,” that glorious detail from the Eastern Face of the Arc De Triomphe, 1832-35, sculpted by Francois Rude (1931-1934). It was late, past midnight, nobody else but Caloub and I were there in the sacred Huey P. Long garden, making love near the tomb, deep in the bushes. Afterwards I was struck by this urge—to imitate art with pure unadulterated young male nature.
And so Viola! There I was—standing there looking up at nude young Caloub Flambeaux. It was a humid summer night—and there was Caloub posing for me up there on the Capitol Building façade. Alongside the exquisitely homoerotic “La Marseillaise” sculpture of the Arc of Triumph—dedicated to the French Revolution.
And so Viola! There was my nude trick—young Caloub now so artfully gracing the front façade of Huey P. Long’s magnificent modern sweeping Art Deco /Streamlined Moderne skyscraper capitol. It loomed up into the sky like a looming phallic Temple—over all of Baton Rouge and the Mississippi River. Gazing past the bus stop where I picked up cute Caloub—all the way down past the levee leaning into the sugarcane fields south of campus and the proud Tiger Stadium roaring every football weekend.
I could taste the young Frenchman—this cute Caloub Flambeaux. He wasn’t shy or self-conscious—he was a runaway, a high school drop-out, perhaps even a juvenile delinquent. What excited me the most tho—was the exquisite urgency of his Jailbait jouissance. Posing for me up there nude on the façade—tres revolutionary, my dear.
Life imitating art—rude as Francois Rude.
__________________
http://bonthebeautiful.blogspot.com/2011/03/la-marseillaise.html
“The goal is not to become
a rereader but to rise above
the existing levels and created
Edouard’s unwritten novel,
which, like a never-ending
spiral, engenders new text
about texts”—Leonid Livak,
“The Art of Writing a Novel,”
How It Was Done in Paris:
Émigré Literature And
French Modernism
I had these two eyes—they weren’t like mirrors, they were more like twin aquariums. I didn’t walk, I swam thru life. I kept sloshing around in an aquatic daze with these two big fishy eyes—completely impervious to all the usual visual impressions people are supposed to possess to live, to love, to survive.
I suppose I was just as blind as Miss Milton, just as deaf like Miss Beethoven—I was no genius tho like them. I was simply a gay naïve idiot-savant in a watery dream-world, my dears. A blissful incapacity for human observation was mine—hence complete uniformity of the str8t world surrounded me.
I was blind to everything—except for one thing. It happens, I suppose, sometimes a gay person has some little light of his or her own glimmering inside them. Caprices of some demonic resourceful nature may sometimes out of sheer boredom crave for experiences that might need some kind of startling readjustment and substitution of the senses such that an inner gay light might astonishingly brighten some event so as to surprisingly bring something perhaps rather gauche or grotesque suddenly about.
How could a deep-sea bug-eyed creature like me even become aware of the paradoxical formula that “nature mimics art”? And yet it happened to me one night late standing there—in front of the magnificent, rather lewd facade at the Baton Rouge Louisiana State Capitol.
There it was—“La Marseillaise,” that glorious detail from the Eastern Face of the Arc De Triomphe, 1832-35, sculpted by Francois Rude (1931-1934). It was late, past midnight, nobody else but Caloub and I were there in the sacred Huey P. Long garden, making love near the tomb, deep in the bushes. Afterwards I was struck by this urge—to imitate art with pure unadulterated young male nature.
And so Viola! There I was—standing there looking up at nude young Caloub Flambeaux. It was a humid summer night—and there was Caloub posing for me up there on the Capitol Building façade. Alongside the exquisitely homoerotic “La Marseillaise” sculpture of the Arc of Triumph—dedicated to the French Revolution.
And so Viola! There was my nude trick—young Caloub now so artfully gracing the front façade of Huey P. Long’s magnificent modern sweeping Art Deco /Streamlined Moderne skyscraper capitol. It loomed up into the sky like a looming phallic Temple—over all of Baton Rouge and the Mississippi River. Gazing past the bus stop where I picked up cute Caloub—all the way down past the levee leaning into the sugarcane fields south of campus and the proud Tiger Stadium roaring every football weekend.
I could taste the young Frenchman—this cute Caloub Flambeaux. He wasn’t shy or self-conscious—he was a runaway, a high school drop-out, perhaps even a juvenile delinquent. What excited me the most tho—was the exquisite urgency of his Jailbait jouissance. Posing for me up there nude on the façade—tres revolutionary, my dear.
Life imitating art—rude as Francois Rude.
